Hard Knocks
by laureleaf
Summary: Sherlock and John have a massive fight. Can Sherlock figure out how to apologize, and can John forgive him? No slash. Expansion on my 'Bored' chapter in 'Five times John punched Sherlock'. Lots of chapters, but they're short.
1. Bored

**Rating: **K for mild language

**Category: **Gen/angst

**A/N: **Due to popular demand, I'm expanding on the Bored chapter of 'Five times John punched Sherlock'. (You should probably read it if you haven't yet, I'll cover a lot of the same ground but not all of it.) Updates will be irregular (sorry), but they will come. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer:** _Sherlock_ belongs to the inestimable Moffat and the BBC and other people who aren't me. As always, a tip of the hat to ACD.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

_Bored._

No cases in _four whole days_ what is WRONG with the criminal classes can't they just _think_ of something illegal to do, even if it's dull? Even a stupid domestic murder would be better than _nothing. _

_Booored._

Something to do something to do something to do…

Anatomy… can't do anything with those earwax samples until Tuesday at the earliest. And John _still _won't allow the maggot experiment.

Chemistry…but the test tubes need cleaned or the reaction won't be correct. Cleaning is _dull_.

Physics… John hid his gun. Again. He's getting better at it too… might be worth the bother to get up and find it. Probably isn't though. The flat is only so big, only so many places that firearm could be.

English… no, John is on his laptop. My laptop is on the table. Too far away.

_Booooored._

I need a case I need a case I need a case I need a case…

Lestrade won't answer his phone.

_Booooooored. _

3.141592653589793238462643383279502884197169399375 10582097494459230781640628620899862803482534211706 79

_Booooooooored. _

Must do something must do something must _do_ _something_…

Damit.

_Mycroft _won't answer his phone.

Stupid moronic idiotic stuck-up useless meddling prat of a brother.

_Booooooooooored. _

Actinium, aluminum, americium, antimony, argon, arsenic, astatine, barium, berkelium, beryllium, bismuth…

…Tin, Titanium, Tungsten, Uniseptium, Uranium, Vanadium, Xenon, Ytterbium, Yttrium, Zinc, Zirconium.

_Booooooooooooored._

Nicotine. I want it and I need it and I need it _right_ _now_.

No. Need something stronger. Cocaine. It's been a while… wonder if my tolerance has gone down yet?

No. Bit Not Good Bit Not Good…

_Booooooooooooooored_

2.718281828459045235360287471352662497757247093699 9595749669676277240766303535475945

_Booooooooooooooooored_.

Lestrade still hasn't answered any of the 24 texts I've sent. Mindless idiot.

_Booooooooooooooooooored_.

"Shut up Sherlock, I'm not your personal entertainment system. Clean up the kitchen or something, heaven knows it needs it."


	2. Can I come?

**Rating: **K for mild language

**Category: **Gen/angst

**A/N: **Same comments as last week:this is part 2 of my expanded Bored chapter. I really have no idea at this point how long it will eventually be. Could be 5 chapters, could be 10, could be more... we'll see. Read the original, it makes more sense that way. Blame Berlin for the latish update and shortish chapter. It's an awesome city, so much to do, so much to see, so much currywurst to eat... visit if you ever have the chance!

**Disclaimer:** _Sherlock_ belongs to the inestimable Moffat and the BBC and other people who aren't me. As always, a tip of the hat to ACD.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

"Shut up Sherlock, I'm not your personal entertainment system. Clean up the kitchen or something, heaven knows it needs it."

_Hallelujah!_ _Talking to John is better than Bored. Much better._ _Must drag it out as looong as possible._

"Dull."

"You _cannot_ be serious, Sherlock," John said, slamming his laptop shut. _Bad for the hinges, memo to order a new laptop for Christmas._

"Clean it, and clean it now, and stop whining about it. I swear, you act like you're four years old some days! I'm not your mother!" _Why so concerned about the kitchen? Hasn't been thinking about mother, nor grandmother, nor Harry, so not some sort of fond remembrance of a kitchen. Not talked to Stamford, comparing kitchen to friend's kitchens. Why the kitchen? The whole house is perfectly organized. Mostly. I know where everything is, even if John doesn't. He's waiting for an answer. Change topic to give more time for contemplation. _

"I'm fully aware that you are neither female nor related to me, John."

"Right. I'm off to the gym, it better be clean by the time I get back." _Nope, definitely not female remembrances. Wait. No no no no no he's LEAVING! Don't leave me here John. Booooooooooored! _

"Gym?" _Play dumb, buy time, stave off Bored. _

"Yes, Sherlock, that place where blokes go to lift weights and get buff? Not everyone can stay in perfect fitness on a diet of nicotine and coffee and no sleep. Us mere humans have to eat, sleep, and exercise on a semi-regular basis."

"Can I come?" _Please please please please please?_

"Absolutely not." _We'll see about that. _


	3. Losing

**A/N: **For those who don't know, this is part of an expansion of my Bored chapter from _Five times John punched Sherlock_. Read it. For those who _do_ know, thanks for sticking around :)

**Disclaimer:** _Sherlock_ belongs to the inestimable Moffat and the BBC and other people who aren't me. As always, a tip of the hat to ACD.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

At first, it was just a relief to be Not-Bored, to have a reason to go outside and deduce people. Then it was a Good Thing to be teaching John how to not get kidnapped (Very Bad Thing). The doctor was actually quite proficient at fighting, especially defensive maneuvers. But John fought straight and clean, no dirty tricks. Sherlock had forgotten there was even such a thing as fighting without cheating. You fought to win, not to be polite! Apparently that was a Bit Not Good. _Delete._ Fighting dirty kept him alive. More importantly, it kept John alive. And _most_ importantly, it annoyed Mycroft. A Very Good Thing.

It was starting to get tedious (precursor to Bored) so Sherlock decided to add some banter. Light stuff, just to keep it interesting.

Then, as the Americans say, shit got real.

He didn't realize how _hard_ it would be to listen to John insult him. _It's illogical: I am an adult. I am above this. I am a sociopath. I don't care. I don't care I don't care I don't care._

He wasn't in primary anymore, this wasn't a bunch of idiots he was facing. John was just kidding, right? Nothing serious here.

Right?

Then why did it _hurt_ so _badly?_

He had built up a thick shell of indifference over the years, carefully cultivating an intimidating and apparently impenetrable defense against sentiment. Most insults slid off his armor like oil, leaving it stronger, better. But John, inexplicably, knew exactly where the chinks in his armor were. And he was attacking every one of them.

So Sherlock did what he always did when attacked: he attacked back. Usually one well-aimed comment caused his opponent to retreat.

John was not a typical opponent.

No matter what he said, John shrugged it off like it was nothing. He'd built up fortifications of his own against Sherlock, constructed out of necessity to keep from being dissolved in the acidic environment that the self-proclaimed sociopath cultivated daily.

Sherlock was quickly losing ground, unable to defend, unable to attack. To his surprise, he was _losing._ John had fought him before, and won, but that was with the element of surprise on his side. Sherlock always thought that in a (semi)fair fight, he would undoubtedly win. And in a battle of words and wits, he _always_ won.

But he was _losing_, and losing badly, on both fronts. _This cannot be happening._


	4. Target Aquired

**A/N: **And here is the punch. This is the last chapter of old stuff in a new light, next chapter will start to reveal the fallout.

**Disclaimer:** _Sherlock_ belongs to the inestimable Moffat and the BBC and other people who aren't me. As always, a tip of the hat to ACD.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

The situation was becoming desperate. He was cornered, trapped, assailed, threatened. He wanted, no _needed_ an escape. _Concentrate. Analyze the case. It's just an intellectual problem, I just need to control my emotions and determine a logical solution. _

"_I'm_ the idiot? I'm not the one that has to be reminded to _eat_ every day. Or to sleep at least once a week. I'm don't make a habit of running off, _unarmed_, after dangerous criminals with _no_ backup and _no_ plan. All you see is the precious _case_, the sodden _Plan_. London could burn to the ground before you could be _bothered_ to care about _anyone_, you machine!"

_{Target acquired. Determine plan of attack.}_

_{Physical Weaknesses: weaker left punch, swelling eye, known weak leg, probably aggravated.}_

_{Mental Weaknesses: plays by the rules, psychological issues in the past, fondness for Sherlock.}_

_{Point of attack: leg. Unexpected (dirty) and two-fronted (mental and physical)}_

_{Engage.}_

"Machine, am I? Fine. At least I'm not some sobbing sentimental useless friendless _cripple_…"

_{Target misanalysed. Disengage!}_

_{Position compromised. Defense overwhelmed. Forced system shutdown.}_

_{Reboot._ _Previously unsaved data might not be recoverable__.}_


	5. Not Good

**A/N: **Ok, so I lied. The next chapter will have new stuff, for real. Sorry. I'll update quickly to make up for it.

**Disclaimer:** _Sherlock_ belongs to the inestimable Moffat and the BBC and other people who aren't me. As always, a tip of the hat to ACD.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

"John?"

_No response. Face flushed, increased breathing rate, elevated pulse, not making eye contact, left hand clenching, eyes narrowed, shaking: angry, no furious. Why? _

_Not Good Not Good Not Good_

_What happened? He called me a princess, I called him promiscuous, he insulted my methods, and I retaliated with… something to do with idiots, I think. Then what? I'm on the floor, my head hurts, why? _

_Knockout, obviously. _

_Why? I call him an idiot on a weekly basis. _

_There is something missing here. A vital piece of information that I do not have._

_Shite._ _He's leaving. Must fix situation _now_. Apologizing is a Good Thing, right? Even if I don't know what I did?_

"John, I'm sorry."

_No response. Turning away. _

_Very Bad Very Bad Very Bad_

_He's favoring his leg, arm held stiffly. But there is no indication of bruising or swelling there… so I don't think I physically hurt him, thank god. Well, other than that black eye. And some bruised ribs. But I remember that. And it's not like he was pulling punches either. _

_I must have said something, something bad. Very Bad. What?_

"John, I didn't mean it."

_Wrong thing to say, I can see it in his eyes. Why can't I ever say the right things?_

_John is gone. _

_No._


	6. Why is my face wet?

**A/N: **Officially, new stuff! Sorry it took so long, I wanted to explain things from Sherlock's perspective. Hopefully things now will be a bit more interesting.

**Disclaimer:** _Sherlock_ belongs to the inestimable Moffat and the BBC and other people who aren't me. As always, a tip of the hat to ACD.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

No.

Stupid stupid stupid! WHAT DID I SAY? Why can't I remember?

Everything is blurry. Why is everything blurry? Concussion? No, equilibrium unchanged, motor functions stable, no other symptoms other than slight memory loss. Possibly a minor concussion, then.

Why is my face wet? Blood? Yes, but something else too… water? Did John try to revive me by throwing _water_ at me? He's a _much_ better doctor than that…

Did I insult his doctoring skills? Because that would be Very Bad. He's saved my life (more than once) with those skills. Not that I'd _ever_ admit it.

Not water… it's salty. Sweat then. Must be. Although there _is_ a lot of it. Ignore. Nothing a shower won't fix.

Did I bring up the war? Surely not. I know better, right? Even a machine has _some_ tact, _some_ boundaries that are never crossed.

Need someplace quiet to think. Baker Street. Walking will help. Too much noise and idiocy here.

What is that strange sound? Sobbing? No. Gasping? Ignore. Other people will deal with it. Probably leaking pipes or dramatic teenagers or something unimportant and dull.

What if John's at home? Then what?

No, John always goes to the park when we have a fight. I'll have at least 3 hours before he returns. Probably more.

Why are people looking at me more strangely than usual? No matter, they're just idiots. I'll take the back way, hopping between buildings is more fun anyway.

What if John doesn't come back?

Very Bad Very Bad Very Bad

_delete delete delete_

John will come back. John always comes back. No data to corroborate alternative hypothesis.

Ah, Baker Street. As a side note, why is everything still blurry?

What will Mrs. Hudson say when she sees me? I don't need her mothering, I need to THINK…

Need to figure out what I did. Need to figure out what to do about it.

Revision of previous opinion. Mrs. Hudson could help. She knows all those social niceties that are too dull to remember. Like apologizing. What did I do wrong earlier? I must observe more closely. I thought I had the tone right, I based it off the time he apologized for ruining my experiment…

John better appreciate this. I absolutely _abhor_ asking for help.


	7. I'll get you a cuppa, dear

**A/N: **Not much to say other than enjoy, comment, and stop bugging me for updates. You'll get them when you get them, ergo, once a week minimum, twice a week maximum. If you're dying for something to read, I highly recommend The American's Thesis.

**Disclaimer:** _Sherlock_ belongs to the inestimable Moffat and the BBC and other people who aren't me. As always, a tip of the hat to ACD.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

There was a knock on the door. _Wonder who that could be, this time of night_. Mrs. Hudson was surprised to see Sherlock standing in the entryway. He looked terrible, blood dripping into his scarf, bruises mottling his pale face, which were inexplicably covered with tearstains. He was shaking slightly too, and it couldn't be from the cold: it was balmy outside.

"Sherlock dear, what on earth…"

"Mrs. Hudson, I have done a Very Bad Thing."

"Come on in dear, don't just stand there. I'll get you a cuppa. Now, what did you do?"

"I can't remember."

"Did it involve the police? Do I need to call your brother? I hope not, dear, he's frightfully rude. And what on earth did you do to your handsome face? Were you in an accident? Is John alright?"

"John is fine, Mrs. Hudson."

"He better be. Nice boy, John. You take good care of him, you hear? Now hold still, you need some ointment on those bruises. And some antiseptic for that cut..."

"Ouch. Leave my face alone!"

"You can't just _leave_ it like that Sherlock, it'll scar. Now. Why have you been crying? What happened?"

"I haven't been _crying_, Mrs. Hudson, don't be ridiculous!"

"What else do you call it? Your face is covered with tearstains, and you were sobbing when you walked in my door. Don't try and deny it. Feelings won't kill you, dear. Are you _sure_ John's alright?"

"He's _fine_ Mrs. Hudson." _I hope so. _

"What happened? And don't dare lie to _me_, young man!"


	8. Remembering

**A/N: **sorry for the late update. Nuremburg, Salzburg, and Munich are awesome :) I'll continue to be rather busy for the next few weeks, so updates might be a bit hectic. But I'll make up for it with a new story that I'll start posting soon. I've almost finished it, so updates will be Much more predictable. Thanks for sticking with this story, reviews are love!

**Disclaimer:** _Sherlock_ belongs to the inestimable Moffat and the BBC and other people who aren't me. As always, a tip of the hat to ACD.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

"I told you, I can't remember."

"You can do better than that, Sherlock. Start from the beginning," the not-housekeeper admonished.

"I was bored…" he began.

"Never a good thing, my poor wall…" Mrs. Hudson was about to begin a tirade about Sherlock's atrocious past behaviors, but he cut her off.

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson. John and I went to the gym. And started boxing."

"Which quickly escalated into fighting, am I right? Silly boys. Never think ahead."

She waved off Sherlock's look of incredulity. "You aren't the only one with eyes, dear. Drink your tea now, before it gets cool."

Sherlock stared at the offending cup like it had personally insulted him, but sipped it all the same. One did not argue with Mrs. Hudson about tea.

"I'm assuming harsh words were exchanged?"

A soul-weary sigh.

"That you regret?"

"Obviously!"

"What did you say?"

"I told you, Mrs. Hudson, _I can't remember because John knocked me out!"_

"Good for him, you deserve it."

Another dumbfounded stare.

"You push that man to his limit on a daily basis, do you know that? He's a much better person than you, love, in more ways than one," she murmured softly, limping as she walked around the table, searching for the sugar.

"Would you like some of those confounded herbal soothers, Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock changed the uncomfortable subject to a slightly less uncomfortable subject.

"Green jar by the sink. Now where did I put that sugar?..." Mrs. Hudson continued to natter on, ignored by Sherlock.

_It was coming back to him… little glimpses of what he had forgotten. He almost had it…_

"Thank you dear. You may be an idiot sometimes, but you do know how to make a body feel like a lady instead of an invalid."

Sherlock dropped the jar in a crash of green splinters. He remembered. And he wished to high heaven that he hadn't.

_"Machine, am I? Fine. At least I'm not some sobbing sentimental useless friendless _cripple_…"_


	9. Soap

**A/N: **This chapter could theoretically be part of "Five times John punched Sherlock". I'd call it "And one time Mrs. Hudson did". Enjoy!

For my German readers: You have a beautiful and wonderful country, and I'm so blessed to have had the opportunity to explore it and learn more about your culture. I cannot wait to return!

**Disclaimer:** _Sherlock_ belongs to the inestimable Moffat and the BBC and other people who aren't me. As always, a tip of the hat to ACD.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson admonished, "I thought you were more careful, that was my mums's...you clean it up right now young man!"

The gangly detective hadn't moved a muscle, arms held awkwardly in front of him like they were still holding the jar. Like he still was in control when in reality the situation had already slipped through his grasp.

"Today would be nice!" she admonished, thrusting a broom into his hand.

"What am I going to do?" he moaned, closing his eyes. He was crying now, he realized. Again.

"You are going to clean up the mess you made! And crocodile tears aren't going to get you out of it, you aren't the first spoiled child I've dealt with dear!"

"Mrs. Hudson, I _can't _do this right now. John…" his voice cracked. Damn his blasted transport.

"Excuses will get you nowhere! Get to it!"

"I remembered what I said," he replied, automatically going through the motions of sweeping the glass fragments into a pile.

"And?"

"And…" he didn't want to repeat it. He was so deeply ashamed to have said it even once. But the _look_ Mrs. Hudson gave him left him no choice.

"I called him a sobbing, sentimental, useless, friendless…" his voice had dropped to a whisper. _John is never going to forgive me. Ever. _

"Finish it, Sherlock." Mrs. Hudson had gone quiet as well. _Danger_, a small part of his brain alerted him. But it was lost underneath the mantra of _John what have I done John please John what was I thinking John what have I done John I'm so sorry John... _

"Cripple," he spat out between clenched teeth. _Dear god how could I have even thought of that? John's in better shape than I am, and a war hero to boot. He hasn't limped in months, his shoulder never bothered him anyway…_

He didn't see the slap coming until it was too late. He wouldn't have avoided it though, even if he could have.

"Such language from one of my boys, I am absolutely ashamed, Sherlock! Come here this instant."

Sherlock obeyed, limply.

He had forgotten how _disgusting_ soap tasted.

The flavor didn't improve after five minutes, either.


	10. Alone

**A/N: **Sorry this is a bit late... but between jet lag and losing (and later finding) my luggage, I'm a bit out of it. And thanks for all the lovely feedback for the last few chapters, it really means a lot! This chapter's just a bit angsty, forewarning you. Things will get worse before they get better, and all that.

**Disclaimer:** _Sherlock_ belongs to the inestimable Moffat and the BBC and other people who aren't me. As always, a tip of the hat to ACD.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Sherlock lay on his bed, three nicotine patches on his arm. He'd have put on four, but John had found, and consequently relocated, most of his stash and he had better things to do right now than try finding it. After Mrs. Hudson had sent him to his room he had brushed his teeth a good five times. He could still taste the nasty soap, but he could just be imagining things. Sherlock had taken a long shower too, but he still felt slimy inside. Dirty. _Is this what guilt feels like?_

What on _earth_ was he going to do now? Mrs. Hudson had come up to tell him that John had called, saying he was spending the night at Harry's. _Why Harry's? They're relationship is still strained at best... am I so repulsive that living with Harry seems like a good idea? _Whatever John's reasons, it gave Sherlock several more hours to come up with a solution.

Two hours, three coffees, and four scrapped concertos later, he was no closer to an answer than he was back at the gym.

He tried talking it out with the skull, but that particular conversation lasted about thirty seconds before he tossed it frustratedly into John's chair. It wasn't a suitable replacement. At all.

Sherlock finally seriously considered the idea of John not coming back. Of him showing up in the morning, not saying a word, packing his jumpers and notebooks and battered laptop into his old army rucksack and second-hand suitcase and walking down those seventeen steps and not looking back.

He would _never_ admit that the thought absolutely terrified him. That it shuddered through his very soul like a million sharp needles of pain. Sherlock could _not _let John go. But John was going to leave regardless, there was no other feasible possibility. He'd have come to terms with reality, despite how terrible it was. He only had himself to blame, after all.

Would it be better to just let him go? It was dangerous, staying with Sherlock. He winced, thinking about all the close calls. In the last few months, they had faced assassins and murderers from every corner of the globe. John had been held at gunpoint, kidnapped, poisoned, trapped at knifepoint, beaten, and strapped to bomb. Sherlock didn't think about that last one. He dreamt about it often enough. A few more seconds, and he would have pulled that trigger, sending them both, most likely, to their deaths. A split-second whim of Moriarty's, and he would have come home alone.

Just like tonight.


	11. Home

**A/N: **First and foremost, thanks for all the wonderful reviews you've given this story so far :) Don't worry, Sherlock's going to figure out how to fix things soon. Also, the chapters will be longer, or at least updated faster. Thanks for being patient with me.

**Disclaimer:** _Sherlock_ belongs to the inestimable Moffat and the BBC and other people who aren't me. As always, a tip of the hat to ACD.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

He'd made his decision. John had no reason to come back, and Sherlock wasn't going to make him stay. It was better that way. Sherlock was _not_ going to be the death of John if he could possibly prevent it. John deserved someone better than Sherlock. Someone who told him that he was amazing. Who didn't need to be told to eat every other day. Who remembered to get the milk and to clean out the garbage. Who felt bad when they called him away from something he was in the middle of. Who didn't get him arrested or attacked by paparazzi. Who didn't risk his life without thinking about the consequences. Someone who knew how to care. Someone that wasn't Sherlock.

Sherlock owed it to him to make the parting as painless as possible. No need to cause him more discomfort than he already had. No cause to drag the process out.

So he went to the attic, got an empty cardboard box, and started looking for John's things among the disaster that was the living room. He tried not to think about what the box had once held, namely, books during the 'Blind Banker' case. One of their first. He tried not to think about the unavoidable fact that there wouldn't be any more.

Sherlock tore the flat apart, looking for anything of John's, but his possessions still barely filled the small box. Medical books, chipped mugs, faded family pictures, half-eaten jam, neatly filled pistol magazines, worn jumpers… But even with those small things gone, the room transformed from _home_ to _house_.


	12. Idea

**A/N: **As promised, Sherlock finally figures out what to do. And Big Brother makes an appearance. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer:** _Sherlock_ belongs to the inestimable Moffat and the BBC and other people who aren't me. As always, a tip of the hat to ACD.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

He climbed up the unfamiliar second flight of stairs (he'd only done it a few times) and deposited the box by the perfectly made bed. His eyes fell to the desk, writing utensils neatly lined up on the left side. _I'd better explain myself. I might not be able to do it in person, but surely I can figure it out in writing, right? John deserves a decent apology. _

An hour and sixteen minutes later, Sherlock stormed down the stairs. Who knew writing could be so _difficult_? He was a master of verbal sparring, but hand him a pen and his boundless well of words simply ran dry. Sherlock was so preoccupied that he didn't see the pile of books near the foot of the stairs, causing him to trip and fall face-first into another pile of papers. Several minutes later, when he finally disentangled himself from the clutter, he suddenly was struck with an idea.

He _finally _figured out how to properly apologize, but he would need some help with the execution...

So he swallowed his not-inconsiderable pride and called in the big guns.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

"Absolutely not, brother mine. My resources are not to be used in such a frivolous manner, no matter how noble the cause. And no matter how tempting the repayment. Five cases, no strings attached? You're growing desperate. It doesn't become you. And," he added in a smug voice, "your apology will be received better if you do it yourself, Sherlock. You cannot take the easy way out this time."

"Great use you are," Sherlock sulked. "If you aren't going to be helpful then piss off."

"I'm right, you know. And it's not a bad idea, actually. A bit too much sentiment for my liking, but I think John will appreciate."

"Go eat cake, Mycroft," he hung up. _Well, that was a spectacular waste of effort, never mind the eternal embarrassment. He'll never let me live that down. It was worth a shot though._


	13. Running

**A/N: **This chapter goes to everyone who wanted to know what John was up to, especially Ralina :)

**Disclaimer:** I think it's fairly obvious by now that I own nothing, Moffat and Gatiss do, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle is genius. Can we dispense with the formalities? Fabulous. _  
_

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

John loved running. He always had, ever since he could stand on two legs. Drove his mother up a wall, chasing him everywhere. He'd been in track in primary, then rugby in secondary. His love of running had served him well in Afghanistan, charging between cover and dying patients.

But then he'd gotten shot. And he could barely walk, much less run. And for no other reason than he couldn't get his head screwed on straight. It was shameful and embarrassing and painful and utterly horrible.

And then there was Sherlock, who gave it back to him. The sweet release of thoughts, the raging adrenaline, pleasant pain of aching muscles, the soothing rhythm of motion.

_Jesus_, it was so good to be able to _run_ again. To be able to get away from Sherlock when he was at his worst and to just forget it all and just _run_.

To be clear, he wasn't running _away_. John would die before retreating. He just needed to clear his head. It kept him from losing his mind in a world gone mad, from strangling his idiotic excuse of a flat mate.

It was taking longer than usual for him to find his inner peace tonight, though. It didn't help that his leg was acting dodgy in ways that it hadn't for months. _Cripple_, his mind whispered in Sherlock's voice. He tried to ignore it.

Sherlock knew him too well, and that was both a blessing and a curse.

The worst part about coming back from Afghanistan wasn't the pitying looks, wasn't the residual pain. It was his utter _uselessness_ in society. No one needed him. He'd been surrounded by comrades before, and suddenly he found himself friendless. He was a doctor, but couldn't practice. A soldier, but he couldn't serve. Useless. Pointless.

And to hear his worst insecurities voiced by the one man he trusted instinctively, one of the few people in London he could honestly call 'friend', was gut-wrenchingly painful. At best.

Why did he put up with this shit anyway?


	14. Regifted Phones

He couldn't go back to Baker Street. Not right now. But John was _exhausted_, and sleeping on the streets in his thin jacket didn't seem like a good idea. He wasn't dating anyone (Wonder why? Or rather, _who_ was to blame for that? Exactly.) so he couldn't kip with her. Mike was out of town and he really didn't want to talk with Lestrade about this… and he'd didn't have enough cash for a hotel because Sherlock always made him pay for the cab. That left one last option. Sighing, he dialed his regifted phone.

"John! What an unexpected surprise," Harry gushed into his ear. "About time you used that mobile I gave you. How've you been?"

"I've been better. Hey, I know it's been a while… but can I ask you a favor?"

"Of course!"

"Can I kip out at your place tonight? 221B isn't big enough for both Sherlock and myself at the moment."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Breakup? Of course you can come over. I'll pull out the couch. We'll crack open a few beers and…"

"Absolutely _not_, Harry. You _know_ how I feel about that. And _Sherlock_ and I are _not_ a couple."

"Of course not _anymore, _you dolt, you just dumped him! And are you sure about the beer? Nothing like booze to soothe the heartbreak…" John made a disapproving growl. "Spoil sport. Fine, I'll put the kettle on. The door's unlocked as usual, just come on in."

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

**A/N: **Please note that I do _not_ ship Johnlock, it just seemed in character for Harry to. And for the sake of the argument, Harry's soberish at this point in time, because I can't write drunk people worth a crap.


	15. What you answer to

John called Mrs. Hudson so she wouldn't worry. It was going to be hard to leave her behind. He'd have to visit often.

But not when Sherlock was around.

It was nice, talking to Harry again. It helped that she was almost sober. She was funny as hell when she chose to be, and it was obvious to John that she was tonight. Trying her best to both get back into his good books as well as keep his mind off of things.

He was definitely appreciative. It kept him from shooting something, some_one_, namely Sherlock. See how well _he_ walks with a bullet in his leg. Or shoulder. He hadn't decided which yet.

The next morning, while handing him a bag of ice for his black eye, she said something unexpected.

"'It's not what they call you, it's what you answer to.' I heard that somewhere. Don't remember where though. You don't have to carry the labels others give you John. You know that, right?"

"How on earth…"

"You talk in your sleep, dimwit. That much hasn't changed since we were kids. You're a hero, John, and I'm sorry I didn't tell you that earlier, when you needed me to. So I'll tell you right now. You're a _hero_ and _not_ a cripple. Throw your medals into his snobbish ungrateful idiotic face and tell him to stuff it where the sun don't shine."

"I intend to."

"Then get on with it. I'll get some friends together so you can move out."

"That won't be necessary, I can get my things myself, there isn't much."

"Alright then. Good seeing you, brother. Don't be a stranger."

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

**A/N: **Whatcha think of Harry? Hopefully she wasn't too OOC, but of course, there really isn't that much cannon/TV material on her anyway, so I can do as I please, right? ;)

And for all those anxiously awaiting the Grand Reunion, John will be returning to Baker Street in the next chapter. Thanks for being patient while I played with these character's emotions (and possibly yours, sorry, but why else do you read fanfics, really?).

Shameless plug: I've also started posting "Beneath the Jumper" (and will be updating daily!). You should check it out.


	16. I'm leaving, Mrs Hudson

It was a relief, making the decision to leave. A weight lifted off his chest. He didn't have to worry about Sherlock anymore, didn't have to be his babysitter. He'd done some researching on Harry's internet. Sherlock's "friendship" was downright abusive. It was about time he broke free, to just walk out the door and never look back and start afresh. Enough was enough.

Mrs. Hudson caught him on the landing.

"Oh dear, John, are you all right? You look terrible, let me get you some ice for that eye… come here, come here dear, don't go running off. Sit down and have a cuppa. There," the not-housekeeper fluttered, handing John a steaming mug. She pressed a cold compress against his black eye, causing him to wince.

"Now John," she began, sounding like a scolding mum, "what happened?" Her tone brooked no argument, and John knew he couldn't lie.

"Fight with Sherlock. At the gym. We were just sparring, Mrs. Hudson, don't fuss. The bruising makes it look worse than it is, I already had ice on it this morning at Harry's. I'm fine, I swear."

"It's my job to worry, John dear. And it wasn't 'just sparring'. I've never seen Sherlock so upset…he usually hides it so well, you know. Silly boy. Silly boy_s_," she amended. "Now, go up there and sort it all out. He may have said some hurtful things, John, but he always does. And I'm sure you said some hurtful things too, so go apologize and let that be the end of it. Holding a grudge never did anyone any good, dear."

"I'm leaving, Mrs. Hudson."

"Ridiculous. You're the best thing that ever happened to Sherlock, and he's the best thing that ever happened to you. Don't let a few little words ruin that."

"It's the actions that go along with the words, Mrs. Hudson. I'm sorry. I'm leaving."

"Nonsense, dear," she said more firmly, "You two have weathered too many storms to give up now. Just go up there and talk it over. I'd hate to lose one of my boys."

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

**A/N: **I meant to publish this yesterday (sorry!) but I got sort of distracted... Hope you enjoyed Mrs. Hudson part two. Anyone excited to see Sherlock's apology? Thanks for sticking with this story, I really had no idea that it would become this massive...


	17. Purple hyacinth

He didn't recognize the flat.

John had seen it in every stage and combination of clutter, chaos, mess, disaster, and explosion possible. He'd never seen it _clean_.

Books were in the bookcase, not stacked in haphazard piles. Papers were in the file cabinets, not tossed like confetti across the floor. The carpet was swept (it had changed colors) and the windows were washed, filling the flat with cheerful light. The curtains had been changed (the burn spots were gone) and the 'eloquent' dust had vanished from the shelves. The air smelled fresh, not of moldering experiments.

The kitchen was another shock. It actually looked like an ordinary kitchen. The table top was even visible, burdened only by a pristine white doily and a small vase with a single flower. A normal flower, not some Venus flytrap or poisonous weed. A purple Hyacinth. The counter was clear too, glassware stacked neatly underneath the cabinets. The floor looked like it had been scrubbed, it had changed hues as well. The silverware was in the drawer (not in in some electronics experiment), the knives were in the knife block (not in some half-rotten limb), and the mugs were on their shelf (not strewn haphazardly across the flat). And the fridge was full of food. Edible food. And milk. Fresh, unopened, honest-to-goodness _milk_. Not a single bloody cadaver part or bacterial culture was to be found.

John just stood there, mouth gaping, remembering.

_"Right. I'm off to the gym, it better be clean by the time I get back."_

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

**A/N: **You must remember that John has never seen the flat clean (or anything resembling 'normal'). It was a disaster zone when he moved in, and never really improved (at least in the episodes that I've seen). And thanks for all the comments, I cannot reiterate enough how much they mean to me!


	18. Other considerations

Nope. He wasn't going to cave just because Sherlock decided to actually listen to him for once. Sherlock wasn't really sorry, he was just trying to win him back; if John stayed the place would be trashed again within the week, guaranteed. He had decided to leave, and leave he would. If the only time Sherlock decided to do the housekeeping was when John wasn't there, then it was better for public health (if nothing else) for him to go.

There were several apartments closer to the clinic that looked nice… but their best feature was their lack of flatmates. He was _not_ someone's maid, it would be nice to only have to clean up after himself, and maybe a special lady.

Dating would be _so_ much easier now. Maybe he could finally settle down and find that elusive perfect woman. And as an added bonus, the annoying and inaccurate homophobic teasing would stop as well. Glorious.

The random kidnappings would stop too, he realized. Mycroft wouldn't bug him for updates, the criminals Sherlock annoyed wouldn't try and capture him, and the paparazzi wouldn't accost him. Fabulous.

He'd have time to research those new surgical procedures too. Renew his license and possibly get a full-time job at the hospital. Be a surgeon again. Save lives, not just relieve runny noses.

He couldn't wait.

John all but ran up the stairs, eager to pack his things, only to be met with yet another surprise.

His usually military-clean room was a mess.

Wads of paper were thrown across every possible surface of the small room; piled on the bed, littered across the floor, overflowing the trash bin, heaped across the desk. Out of curiosity, John unfolded one of the clumps and read the spidery handwriting that covered it. Slowly sinking into the litter, he picked up another sheet. And continued to read another and another until the piles of crumped paper were turned into one massive stack of unfinished letters.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

**A/N: **Before you eat me, John and Sherlock will (eventually) make up and all will be back to 'normal'. And before you say John and Sherlock are overreacting, [and by extension, you're sick of me playing with your emotions ;) ] I'm imagining the fight as the straw that broke the camel's back. A blowout has been building for a long time... Anyway, thanks for everyone's continued support, I'll write a story for whoever is the 100th person to review, you pick the prompt :)

And Lestrade _will _eventually ask why Sherlock and John look like they've been run over by a truck, and I'd love to hear your ideas for some really creative excuses! (I do have some in mind, but I'm curious what you can come up with)


	19. Dear John

**A/N:** Thanks for all the feedback! Congrats to cajungirlkye, and keep your eyes peeled for a 'Five times Sherlock was bored and one time John was' in the distant future. For all of you with excellent prompt ideas, but missed the 100th comment, just PM me and I'll see what I can do. Here's the long-awaited letters from chapter 12, and kudos to Lady Juse for remembering them first!

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

_Dear John, _

_I've never really apologized for something I've said before. No matter how horrible it was, you know how I am…_

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

_Dear John, _

_I'm so sorry about what happened tonight, I truly never meant it to go that far. But you said some hurtful things yourself… _

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

_Dear John, _

_I'm sorry. Really, truly. Me, a self-proclaimed sociopath. I feel sorry. And remorseful. And guilty… _

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

_Dear John, _

_I'm sorry. Don't leave. Please. I shouldn't have, but I did, and I'm sorry. And I can't… _

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

_Dear John, _

_I was wrong. You are many things, Captain Dr. Watson, but you are certainly not useless. And you have many friends, even if you can no longer count myself among them. And you are definitely NOT a cr… _

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

_Dear John, _

_How is it that you have such a way with words? They come so easily to you, I can tell, your fingers tick-tapping across the keyboard with annoying frequency even though you hunt-and-peck like my old grandmum. And despite of your horrid technique, when you finish everyone says that your words are fantastic. And they are, despite how I nag about your blog. _

_Why is it that when you say something, it always comes out right, and despite staring at this page for the last ten minutes, despite thinking about what I did from the moment you left, I cannot think of any words to fix this? Why..._

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

_Dear John, _

_You are amazing. You are so patient, kind, and honorable. You are loyal and steadfast and honest and true. You trusted me. You believed I could be human when I had forgotten how to be._

_ I'm sorry I disappointed you. I'm sorry I broke your trust. I'm sorry for what I said and how I said it. _

_You may not be the most intelligent of men, but you are far more wise than I…_

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-


	20. Dear John 2

**A/N: **Early update in honor of Labor Day! For my international readers, hopefully this makes your Monday a bit less horrid ;) For my American ones, enjoy a lazy day off reading fanfics. I recommend anything by **star-eye** :)

If you're curious, these aren't in any sort of order, as John is reading them as he finds them scattered about.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

_Dear John, _

_I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. _

_How many times must I stay it until you believe me? Once? Twice? A hundred times?_

_Because I'd say it as many times as you need..._

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

_Dear John, _

_I'm sorry. You always chide me for talking without thinking, I assure you, the opposite is true. I always think, far more than the average idiot, before I deduce. But I almost never consider what the effect my words will have on others. I let my big brain get away from me tonight and…_

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

_Dear John, _

_I'm not good at this. Don't smirk. I don't apologize often, although you say that I should. I just never understood why people got so _upset_ over hearing the truth. _

_Now I do. _

_I'm sorry John. _

_I couldn't take the truth. What you said was too close to the mark and I felt threatened and lashed out and that was immature and wrong…_

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

_Dear John, _

_"You never know what you have until it's gone"_

_Words from one of those overly sentimental, musically uninspired songs that you like to listen to. But they're true. As I learned today. _

_Don't leave, John, I'm sorry for what I did can't we just… _

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

_Dear John, _

_You were brutally honest. I was just brutal. Please forgive me. I'm sorry. _

_Sherlock Holmes_


	21. Cleaning

**A/N: **Sorry for the super late update! Blame real life. Engineering has no respect for fanfiction, I'm afraid :(

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

_Several hours earlier… _

Ha. The kitchen was… clean. It looked strange without all my test tubes. Naked. But John _would_ like it, right? He always tells me to move it at the most inconvenient of times. Why does he care if he eats at a table or on trays? It still tastes the same!

It had been surprisingly... fun. Digging in my mind palace for notes on all the half-finished experiments was interesting, and figuring out how to dissolve that particularly stubborn glob over by the sink was invigorating. The floor was frustrating though. Whoever designed linoleum deserves to clean it for the rest of their life. I should convince Mrs. Hudson to tile it. Then I wouldn't have to worry about the acid burns.

Cleaning was actually rather soothing, the rhythm of organizing, of wrapping up experiments, of scrubbing. Helped get my scrambled brain back together again. I haven't had a meltdown like that in years… John's a bad (good?) influence on me.

I found a lot of things too, like that mold experiment from last winter and the lucky fork that John got so mad at me for using to fix the blender (it didn't like the frozen eyeballs for some reason and had jammed). Why was it lucky? Don't remember. Must have deleted it.

Leaning against the counter, I looked over at the living room. It was positively hideous. Where did all these artifacts come from? Not mine, surely. What use could I ever have for a three-headed stuffed dog or a scale model of a space ship? And is that a rubber chicken in the corner? If those items ever had a purpose, I've obviously deleted it… regardless, they _are_ all mine. John's things are upstairs already. _Memo: Clean John's room_. He mustn't find those things I wrote. Nauseatingly sentimental yet surprisingly truthful... I better get rid of them now while I'm thinking about it.

Revision: later. Getting to the stairs looks a bit too much like an obstacle course, even with my excellent balance chance of injury is 21.5%. And the living room looks so unsanitary compared to the kitchen… John could perform open-heart surgery on that table now if he wanted to. I even used hospital-grade disinfectant. Actually, it was a bit stronger than that…

Right. Living room. First the papers, then the random objects, then move the furniture to sweep. Make Mrs. Hudson go shopping for some things when she gets up in forty-three minutes. Minimum two hours before John comes back. I've still got enough time. Hopefully I have enough space in my bedroom… if I move the bone collection to the attic and reorganize my disguise collection it will create another two cubic meters of usable area…


	22. Mycroft's Message

**A/N: **So the space ship in 'Cleaning' was supposed to be the USS Enterprise. Yup, I just went there ;) Anyway, this chapter is for those of you who were curious about John's response to Sherlock packing his things (ages ago, I know, I never expected this to turn into the saga that it did!), and for any of you who were curious about those 'four scrapped concertos'. Be patient, I had to wrap up these loose ends before the reunion starts next chapter!

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Underneath the letters, John found a box filled with his things. He recognized them as being formerly downstairs. Sherlock had apparently separated their belongings, possibly in an ill-conceived plan to make moving out easier. Shaking his head at his flatmate's complete lack of knowledge about social interactions, John hefted up the box and started down the stairs, only to be interrupted by the ringing of his phone. Unlisted number. Swearing under his breath, he shifted the box to his hip before answering.

"Mycroft, so help me, if I didn't know that the civilized world would probably collapse if I murdered you…" he stopped halfway through his lambasting.

There was a violin playing on the other end. The saddest, most heart-wrenching violin he'd ever heard. It was loss, it was regret, it was sorrow. Devastating, debilitating sorrow. John felt tears prick unbidden in the corners of his eyes.

He'd heard Sherlock torture the violin more times than he cared to remember, bow scraping tunelessly across minor chords in screeching cacophony. This was the reverse: Sherlock was the one in torment, while the violin was merely the conductor of his agony.

Suddenly, a frustrated snarl prematurely concluded the haunting melody. There was a muffled thump (Sherlock tossing the violin onto his chair) followed by a louder whump (Sherlock throwing himself down into the couch).

Then John heard something he'd never thought he'd hear. And he never wanted to hear it again.

Sherlock sobbing.

Messy, gasping, choking weeping, the kind that he usually mocked with his most scathing insults. It was cut off by Mycroft's voice.

"Before you make your final decision, I want you to be in full possession of the facts, John. My brother, for inexplicable reasons, cares for you. Strongly. And he _is_ sorry, in his own way. I will not coerce you to stay, but please… reconsider your decision. If you need anything, you know how to contact me. Good day, John."

He wasn't sure what was more shocking; Sherlock weeping or Mycroft saying 'please' and actually meaning it. And then there was the spotless flat, the unfinished letters, and the heartrending song to consider. It was too much. John quickly stumbled down the rest of the stairs to make a cup of much-needed tea.


	23. Finding Sherlock

John wasn't going anywhere, God help him. Sherlock was obviously sorry, and if John was perfectly honest with himself, he didn't really want to go. The thrill of the chase, the excitement of a case, the late night Chinese, the inappropriate jokes at crime scenes, the mutilated board games—he couldn't just forget about all the good times he'd had with Sherlock, and he couldn't just pretend they didn't happen either. John didn't think he'd relapse back into that colorless, lifeless existence Sherlock had found him in, but he couldn't know for certain. And he'd almost died for Sherlock, and Sherlock for him, too many times for John to just walk out because of some rash words.

But there wasn't any reason for Sherlock to know that. Not quite yet.

He'd peeked into the consulting detective's room after he'd finished ruminating over his cup of tea. He'd almost burst out laughing, but had somehow managed to stifle it when he saw Sherlock, snoring as he leaned against the junk-covered bed, legs lost in a pile of paperwork. So _that's_ where all the extra stuff had gone. Just like any teenager forced to clean his room, Sherlock had just crammed whatever couldn't be cleaned or organized into the 'closet'. The consulting detective looked terrible, fingers raw from scrubbing, his usually pristine dressing gown a study in filth, from grease stains to dust bunnies, dark circles a testament of yet another sleepless night. It was obvious that he had barely treated his battered face before spending the entire night cleaning the flat until collapsing from exhaustion. Quietly, John retreated, attempting to close the door behind him against the press of paperwork and chemical equipment.

He snatched a book and a few other things before settling down in his chair to wait for the consulting detective to wake from his much-needed sleep.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

**A/N: **Something of a filler chapter, I know, but it needed done. The long-awaited Reunion is next!


	24. Finding John

**A/N:** Nothing much to say other than thanks for all the support and enjoy!

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Sherlock woke with a start. He'd never meant to fall asleep, he was in the middle of the 2001 cases (at nine in the morning) when he'd just closed his eyes for a moment...glancing out the window, he realized with a jolt (and a creative string of swearwords) that was several hours ago. If John was coming home, he'd have done it by now.

Disentangling his long limbs from the disaster that was now his bedroom floor, he paused at the door. It had been opened at one point. Conclusion: John had been there.

_Shit_.

If John had been to Sherlock's room, he'd have been to his own…and seen the letters…

Sherlock groaned. Great. Now John was going to be mad at him for trashing his room, and annoyed at him for not being able to express the simplest of apologies. _And_ he'd seen the horrid state of Sherlock's room. Perfect. Just perfect. If there was any chance of this plan fixing things, it was gone now… stupid, stupid, _stupid_ transport.

He wanted desperately to pace, but there wasn't room among the scattered chemical equipment, memorabilia, and case files. So he just stood there, prowling the rooms of his mind palace instead.

Was John still here? Or had he managed to pack up and leave while Sherlock was so pathetically passed out? Sherlock cricked his back. That was _not_ the most comfortable of sleeping positions he could have chosen…

Sherlock paused, mid-stretch. There had been a noise, a small one, from the living room. Not Mrs. Hudson, he'd told her to stay downstairs after delivering those supplies. So unless it was an assassin (unlikely, they'd have come into his room) or Lestrade (unlikely, too quiet) or Mycroft (very unlikely, not his style to wait for Sherlock to wake up) it _had _to be… John.

The thought of seeing him again was terrifying and fantastically wonderful at the same time. But mostly terrifying.

Well, if John was there, he wasn't going to wait forever. Biting the bullet, Sherlock opened the door the rest of the way, spilling a collection of dried eyeballs and almost tripping on a scalpel handle.

_Click. _

Sherlock looked up sharply at the sudden sound. John had been waiting for him (approximately two hours, judging by the amount of tea consumed), chair turned to give a full view of the door. Sherlock's heart thrilled at the sight. _John_. Then he saw what John was doing—he was in the process of cleaning his gun. And he didn't look happy.


	25. The meaning of words

_Click._

John just sat there, staring at Sherlock, meticulously cleaning his already spotless pistol and snapping the pieces together violently. Sherlock gulped, staring down at his bare feet like some scolded schoolboy. After a few minutes of making him twitch, John spoke.

"Tell me, what is the definition of 'serendipity'?"

Sherlock was so stunned at the unexpected question that he couldn't say a word for several moments.

"Serendipity: the faculty or phenomenon of finding valuable or agreeable things not sought for," he managed to eventually sputter, wondering what this had to do with anything, confusion written all over his aching face.

"How about 'impetus'?"

Curious now, Sherlock continued to play along, "A driving force, impulse, incentive, or stimulus. Also, a stimulation or encouragement resulting in increased activity."

"Exhilarating?"

"To make cheerful and excited: enliven, elate."

"Eccentric?"

"Deviating from conventional or accepted usage or conduct especially in odd or whimsical ways."

"Idiot?"

"A foolish or stupid person."

"Tactless?"

Sherlock could see where this was going. He didn't like it, but continued anyway.

"Lacking sensitive mental or aesthetic perception."

"And?" John asked, eyebrow raising, hands pausing in their delicate task.

"Absence of the sense of what to do or say in order to maintain good relations with others or avoid offense."

"You wouldn't also happen to know the definition of 'cripple', would you?"

"John…"

"Cripple," John repeated, snicking the magazine into place, sighting down the shining barrel at Sherlock.

"A lame or partly disabled person; one that is disabled or deficient in a specified manner; something flawed or imperfect," Sherlock said in a resigned whisper.

John had stood up now, eyes glinting dangerously. "One more, Sherlock, humor me," he said, stepping in close, forcing Sherlock to look him in the eye.

"Forgiven."

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

**A/N:** I got this idea while listening to a country song (that I can't remember the name of to save my life). All definitions are from Merriam-Webster.

Only a few more chapters to go (I'm aiming for 30 total), thanks for all your support, hope you enjoyed, reviews are love!


	26. Forgiven

"Forgiven"

_To give up resentment of or claim to requital for; to cease to feel resentment against an offender. _

_{Invalid stimulus. Request confirmation. System check for errors in hard drive.}_

"John…"

_{Entrapment imminent. Perform evasive maneuvers.}_

"Hold still, you bloody git, it's just a hug!"

_{Evasive maneuvers ineffective.}_

"You know, a hug. What normal people do when they make up? Relax, you idiot."

_{System check complete. No viruses or faulty data found. Stimulus improbable but not impossible.}_

"_Jesus_, Sherlock, breathe, I'm not squeezing you that hard!"

_John isn't leaving. _

_JOHN IS STAYING. _

_{Emotional regulator overload.}_

"Sherlock, are you alright? Sherlock! Answer me!"

"…John?..."

"Yes, that's my name, Sherlock. You feeling ok? You look terrible, have you eaten at all? Let me get something for your face, those bruises look painful. Sorry for that, by the way," John said, shuffling and looking at his feet shamefully. "My words were unkind and uncalled for. I'm afraid my temper got the best of me too, and I apologize," he said, looking Sherlock in the eye before turning towards the kitchen.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

**A/N:** First off, thanks for all the wonderful reviews! Especially the guest ones, although I do wish you'd log in so I can respond... Anyway, sorry for the super late update, real life was chaos this week.


	27. Crutches

**A/N: **So here's my 'apology' for abandoning you last week. Only two more chapters to go :( Lots of cookies to Ballykissangel for the inspiration for this chapter and star-eye for beta-ing the whole story. They're both excellent writers, check them out!

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Sherlock was staring at John strangely. Not unusual, Sherlock _always_ looked at John strangely. But this strange look was different than usual. Less laser-sharp scrutiny and more like he was perpetually surprised and couldn't figure out why.

John made a mental note to skip the theatrics next time. Obviously Sherlock couldn't handle a taste of his own medicine.

"You came back," Sherlock stated suddenly, catching John by surprise.

"Yes," John replied, not giving anything away. Sherlock needed to figure this out on his own.

"But you weren't initially planning on staying," Sherlock clarified.

"Yes," John conceded, busying his hands with putting away his medical kit. He didn't want to see the hurt look on Sherlock's face that was betrayed by his voice. He'd attempt to mask it now, but after The Pool, John could recognize that look anywhere.

"Why?"

John turned at the utter puzzlement and confusion in the tone.

"Because you apologized," he said carefully, watching Sherlock's expression turn even more lost.

"When? I've never actually said the words..."

The bloody idiot didn't even know what he did. John raked a hand across his face. They were treading dangerous ground, he'd have to be careful.

"Wrong, you did right after it happened, although I ignored you. And then you _showed_ it when you cleaned the flat, and you _wrote_ it with your little paper explosion in my room. Third time's a charm, isn't it?" John said, keeping his voice light. He decided not to mention Mycroft's interference. There was enough animosity between the two brothers already without adding _that_ to the mix.

"So if I hadn't apologized three times then you would have…" Sherlock stopped, throat working as he tried to steady his voice. He had come so close, so dreadfully close, to losing John. And he had only succeeded in keeping him through several lucky coincidences.

"No, Sherlock, the number doesn't matter. The content does."

Sherlock just looked at him with that bewildered expression again. Seeing that he was getting nowhere, John changed the subject.

"So, did you figure out what the definition game was about?"

"Obvious John," Sherlock quickly supplied, glad to be discussing something he understood, "You were describing the first days of our relationship, my faults, my crime, and then my…" Sherlock paused, searching for the appropriate word.

"Punishment?" John supplied with a cocked eyebrow. "At least, the way you reacted to my hug would suggest that."

"You caught me by surprise," Sherlock huffed defensively.

"Of course. Because you were expecting a handshake or bow or something," John rolled his eyes. "But as far as the words go, you missed half my meaning."

Sherlock turned sharply around, surprise and frustration evident. He might as well have said, "What did I miss? What did I get wrong? _Tell me_ John!"

"All of those words could have been used to describe either you _or_ me."

"But you aren't tactless!"

"You've obviously never seen me at a family reunion," John retorted, crossing his arms and rolling his eyes.

"And I'm not a crip…"

"Yes, you are, Sherlock," John said sharply, cutting him off, marching over to the bookshelf and pulling down the Merriam-Webster dictionary.

"Look here," he said after a moment, pointing. Sherlock leaned over and read over his shoulder.

_CRIPPLE_

_1 A: sometimes offensive : a lame or partly disabled person or animal. B: one that is disabled or deficient in a specified manner [a social cripple]_

When Sherlock read the clarifying example, his breath unconsciously hitched.

"You don't have to have a limp and battle scars to be a cripple, Sherlock," John said softly, closing the book. "Sometimes, when we insult others, we're just projecting our own insecurities and failures."

Placing the dictionary back on the perfectly organized shelf, John added, "So I guess it's a good thing we have each other. I'm your crutch and you're mine."

For once, Sherlock was speechless. So he let something other than words do the talking.

Carefully, he placed a hand on John's shoulder, gently turning him around before enveloping him in a heartfelt embrace.


	28. Eggs and orange juice

**A/N: **Warnings for ghastly amounts of domestic fluff and adorableness.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

"I'm going to regret this," John mumbled the next day around a piece of jam-covered toast.

Sherlock merely glanced up from scarfing down as many eggs as possible, as fast as possible. The 'case', as it was, was over, and his transport demanded maintenance.

"You can bring your stuff back into the kitchen. All the experiments and junk."

Sherlock almost spewed orange juice across the pristine table in indignation over the slight to his precious science equipment, but caught himself at the last moment. John laughed at the resulting face.

"Better here than stewing in your bedroom, at least I can monitor whether one of your experiments is going to explode or walk away anytime soon. But the new fridge that Mrs. Hudson brought is for food. You can keep your questionable specimens in the old fridge. Non-negotiable. When you run out of room in there, too bad."

Sherlock attempted to pout, his swollen busted lip turning the famous scowl into an adorable toddler face.

"And leave the cataloguing to me in the future, alright? Organizing cases by ranking them by 'number of bodies' and 'challenge level' is completely rubbish."

At that, the consulting detective tried to throw a glare at John, but the effect was ruined by his bruise-splotched chipmunk cheeks and a speck of egg on the end of his nose.

Undeterred and undistracted by Sherlock's ridiculous expressions, John continued, "But you _are_ going to purge the flat at least once every month. And take out the garbage…"

John's laundry list of chores for Sherlock was interrupted by the trilling of a cell phone. John recognized it as Lestrade's ringtone.

"Case!" Sherlock shouted, vanishing out the door faster than John thought possible. But somehow in the flurry of dramatic coattails, the dishes ended up neatly piled in the sink.


	29. Excuses

"Run into a pack of flying ninjas _again_, Sherlock? Did John have to rescue you? Poor thing," Anderson sneered.

"It involved a mango, three nuns, an iced lolly stand, and a matter of national security. You don't have the clearance, and even if you did, you still wouldn't understand," Sherlock sneered, glowering down his nose.

"Seriously?" Lestrade quirked an eyebrow dubiously. It was equally likely that Sherlock was telling the 100% literal truth or was feeding them a load of utter rubbish.

"Sherlock started it," John said, peering through his shiner.

"John, don't misrepresent the facts! The drug dealer _obviously_ started it, I just happened to finish it. It wasn't my fault that it turned into a bar fight either," he said rebelliously, lisping slightly because of his swollen lip.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock, you can't…" Lestrade began to admonish.

"Drug dealer? I though you said they were nuns?" Donovan crossed her arms, not believing a word. Why Lestrade put up with this childishness was beyond her.

"And a nun can't be a drug dealer? How very stereotypical of you," Sherlock retorted, briefly glancing at John's reaction to gauge if his retort was too harsh.

"So you got beat up by a bunch of lolly-wielding convent girls?"

Both John and Sherlock just stared at her in shock before dissolving into sputters. Lestrade leaned his chair back as far as it would go, laughing uncontrollably at both her comment and the looks on their faces.

Sometimes, he loved his division.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

The End

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

**A/N: **First off, Lestrade never gets enough love. And thank you to Lady Juse for suggesting the mangos and nuns!

Second, THANK YOU star-eye for reading and editing and encouraging me and all the other wonderful things you do.

Third, THANK YOU englishtutor, prothoe, mervoparkite, ballykissangel, shansen, vesperL2, Ralina, Lady Juse, WL Chastain, EJBRUSH1952, and all the rest of my regular commentators. I cannot thank you enough for all the wonderful things you wrote, and I cannot express how wonderful it feels every time I see your profile pics in my inbox or on the reviews page.

Fourth, THANK YOU to all the rest of the lovely folks that favorited and followed and patiently waited for me through the angst and cliffhangers to finish this saga that was *supposed* to be two or three chapters long.

Fifth and finally, I'll be posting a new story soon. So keep an eye out! :)


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